Writhe
by dwilivia
Summary: His writhe poem. Written because they both writhe under his touch and neither knows that he's always thinking of the other when he comes over. RYPAY. Written for prongs over at the Secret Santa FicExchange.


Writhe

by: dwilivia

_rated for a reason. turn back now if you're a minor (shit, I'm a minor! and so is prongs, who requested this fic over at the Secret Santa Fic Exchange.)_

* * *

_Writhe beneath me in crumpled sheets, and drown in melodious ecstasy._

His eyes are sometimes crystal clear grey, like gloomy Monday mornings which she spends seated at the edge of his bed, staring out at the window that lies a glance over her shoulder. But today, they are bright blue and almost like iridescent pigments of light and sky. It is Tuesday morning, at seven twelve, that she slips out of his bed, naked and impatiently tugging her dress from the previous night's dinner over her blonde head. He stirs at the corner, awake, just as she dons on her gold four inch stripper-esque heels, and he gives her a lazy, almost irresponsible smile as if to serve as both a greeting and an annoyance to her.

He nods as she indicates her descision to leave with a shrug of her shoulder toward the door, but not before sitting up and crawling over, causing the sheets to fall from his body and to reveal his half-naked self to her. The curve of his torso is almost angular enough to make her redden, but she remains undaunted, instead, kissing his cheek curtly before turning to leave.

Tuesdays always end up in the most formal of goodbyes, ones that stifle all emotion and necessary words. Probably, she thinks, because it is Tuesday that inevitably brings her crashing back down to reality. Tuesdays are the start of her week at her office in the real world, where she's always late in paying rent and her bills.

It is noon when she catches him at a cafe near her work place with an oddly familiar brunette on his arm. _Gabriella Montez, _she realises, just as he bends down to kiss the girl and wind his arm around her waist intimately. Her smile turns grim because she knows that he has liked Gabriella for the longest time, ever since back in high school after the Twinkle Towne musicale. She isn't stupid, and knows that they'd probably been going out for a while even though he hadn't told her, which, under moral obligation, she rather wished he had.

He pulls out the chair for the dark haired girl and remains as polite as ever. It doesn't make her mad that he's with another woman, let alone one _Gabriella Montez_, which is strange because she is somehow _always _posessive around the guys that are her own. But then again, he had never really been hers to begin with. So she just keeps quiet and makes a mental note to avoid the place for the next few days because she doesn't want to seem jealous. At least, she muses, not now; not somewhere in public where he can know about it.

Five is when her last paper has been filed and drawers all checked and folders stacked, and she can go home. She is tired and thirsty when she hails a cab to take her to her apartment on Harcourt Avenue, and she sleepily watches as the various apartments pass her by in a whirr, making her almost dizzy.

She is four dollars short on paying the cab driver, but Winston, the security guard who watches her block, helps her out a little by slipping a five into her hand. He tips his hat and greets her, pressing the elevator for her as well as she strides in with a big smile on her face, just to thank the kindly old guard.

She fumbles with her keys on reaching her apartment door, and upon finding the right one, she heaves a sigh of relief. As soon as she hears the 'click' that signals the door has been unlocked, she hears footsteps behind her. Suddenly, before she can turn to look, a hand comes up to cup her mouth and another strong one holds her two arms captive, and she screams and _writhes _in the person's strong grip.

She is almost angry to hear him chuckling childishly as he bends down to whisper in her ear. "Miss me?" His breath is chilling and yet so warm on her ear, and it makes her tremble just hearing it.

She doesn't answer, and he pushes open the door with a foot and shuffles inside with her still locked in his hold. She doesn't struggle but instead, waits patiently for him to let go so that he can carry on his game.

It is always Tuesday nights he becomes so extraordinarily wild.

His grip loosens for a little while as he goes to shut the door, and for the moment that his back is turned to face her, her mind fumbles with irrelevant details. Has she gotten rid of last month's junk mail? Cleared the taxes for January? Donated her share of pity money to the lonely orphanage down at the corner of Mel's Street?

Sure enough, her mind assures her that she has done all that. And the next thing that registers when Ryan Evans bends down to kiss her thoroughly is how musty preludes to sex always seem fresh with him.

A wild torrent is brought forth by his single kiss, crashing upon them like a flood of emotions unleashed. All at once, the bitterness of reality is washed away in the waves, engulfed by the sweetness of Ryan's lips and the smooth feel of his hands snaking up her back and lifting her shirt from her body. His lips descend from her mouth to her neck, sucking and occasionally biting and nipping, and she knows that he's going to leave a mark, come Wednesday morning, on that exact same spot that has always been victim to his ministrations, and one that she knows will be inevitably covered by makeup tomorrow before she leaves for work.

Ryan pushes her against the wall of her living room almost harshly, all the while tracing her outer lips with his tongue and molding her body into his own. She can feel him pressing hard into her thigh already and she mutters something low and fast, something that alludes sex with mere words into his ear, brushing against the arc intentionally and leaving behind a trail of goosebumps along the back of his ear. _That,_ she's immensely proud of. And knowing that she has that kind of effect on him almost boldens her, she proceeds to tear him from the living room and into her bed, located just steps away.

The rush of their passions' current is strong, almost blinding, and she cannot help the sighs that emit from her lips. Her skirt is loosened and falls into a ripple at her feet while he throws his shirt off to the side, struggling with his jeans. She crawls onto him, kissing his throat at the exact spot below his Adam's apple, and he grows harder against her crux, pressed up against him.

"God." He moans, while she undos his jeans button and slides the material down his legs, kissing her way along. He threads long, thin fingers into her blonde hair, affectionate and yet, willing her to go faster, because he feels so desperately in want of her, of her body that it is almost like his chest is constricting from the accumulation of too much desire. Her thin waist and her breasts come into view as she straddles his body, his _suddenly _very naked body, and the feel of her wetness, of her heat radiating from her body and pulsing through his sends adrenaline pumped fast and crazy into his system. But he stills for a minute, relaxing and evening out his thoughts and feelings. He reaches out and touches her for a moment when his breathing fades into deep, soft, individual breaths and he can finally see straight, and in the stillness of the room, of the night, with no sound but their laboured breaths that are in sync with each other, he carasses her waist and slides his hands up her back and over her shoulders. His fingers then linger down to her breasts where part of the skin feels paper thin and smooth. She moans quietly, lost for a second in the moment, and he continues his slow, soft exploration over her body.

He sits up and gathers her into his lap, bringing their faces close enough for a long, slow kiss. It is almost sad, though, because this encounter will only last through the night. Come Wednesday, she will pull on her mask of formality, pretense, and all her passion will be covered up, just like the hickeys he leaves are covered up with foundation.

The kiss is broken with a short, illicit gasp from him as she slides herself onto him, slowly, achingly slow, and she is as tight as she had been when he first took her in high school. He breathes heavily- as does she, as she starts to move between them, kissing his neck occasionally and squeezing her thighs, wound around his lower torso, to get him to come.

Eventually he does, breaking out in a cry that almost seems like a half moan at the same time. She smiles down at him, placing one heated kiss against his mouth and bringing her hands to the back of his neck to pull him in closer. Their tongues battle for control, and suddenly, he flips her over so that she is on the bottom, breaking the kiss at first, before kissing her deeply one last time as he slips a finger to rub the bud of nerves that he knows will send her over the edge almost instantly. And in a matter of moments, she comes, shattering and sobbing his name along with the wave. Exhausted, the two bodies slump back into the mattress, and little more than a couple of inches seperates them. Their hearts pound out the last sinews of pleasure from their bodies, while their individual breaths, numerous and laboured, cause them both to feel like they'd just taken a hundred-foot plunge on a roller coaster ride.

He turns to her, mere moments later and holds her close, kissing the skin on her shoulder. She giggles, swatting him away and tries to go back to sleep, and he lets her, but only for a little while. Soon, he is at it again, poking her side and causing her to jump and shriek his name. This time, he pulls her to himself, all the while trying to stifle her laughter, and kisses her long and slow. Pressing her into the bed while bracing his weight on his forearms, he captures her lips once more, deeply, drawing out emotions and feelings too real for either one of them to handle. But they indulge just for the night, making love again and again and again, and soon, wearing out their bodies. Eventually, they fall asleep sweat soaked and passion drained into each other's arms, perfect and romantic. Like a dream.

In her subconscious state, Sharpay Evans gently curls into her brothers' embrace, sighing contentedly. Her head is tucked just nicely into the curve of his neck, and their fingers are interlinked below the covers- his lanky and warm ones that she has developed a sort of mild affinity for. Together, they become the persona of a loving couple, but they know that no matter how many kisses they steal behind closed doors, no matter how many times Ryan gets her to come, and no matter how many fucking times he tells her he truly loves her (and he does)- it's all wrong.

If only they weren't brother and sister.

If only he wasn't Gabriella Montez's loving boyfriend.

If only she wasn't like an ice queen around him in the mornings after they'd slept together.

If only... if only they didn't truly love each other.

But maybe, she thinks, maybe even then, maybe even if they weren't related; if he wasn't Gabriella's boyfriend; if she wasn't an ice queen; maybe even if they did love each other so much that it hurt- it still didn't make up for the fact that they were both so horribly wrong for each other.

But all that didn't matter- at least, not now. Pale and blonde was the boy she loved, and it was alright just to think that tonight.

But just tonight.

Just tonight, she would believe that she really could love him.

Beside her, Ryan shifts, his fingers still wound tightly with hers. She wonders, perhaps, if he still has that groove in his ring finger from writing so much all the time. Gently, she removes her hand from his and strokes the exact spot she knows would be curved to fit a pen snugly. She smiles, thinking how some things _never _change.

He used to write a couple of songs in high school, and now, he writes for the daily paper in the Poets' Section. She has never found time to read it, but once, just once, she had, when he'd slipped a piece of ripped paper into her pocket and she had taken it out to read when she got bored with filing papers at work. It had only been a week ago, and the poem, one from last August, is only three lines long. She hadn't thought it really qualified as a poem, but he'd boasted that it had gotten him published and won four awards.

Not that she really believed him, anyway.

She is sure she still has it, stuffed somewhere in her pretty little purse that is full of cash receipts and credit cards. She suddenly sits up, leans over and reaches for it. Ryan, feeling the warmth of her body gone, stirs awake as she leans over the edge of her bed to grab her purse. Fishing out a little brown slip of folded paper, he watches as she throws the little purse aside and crawls back into his arms, handing him the note.

"Read it." She whispers.

And like a true poet, he does. His calls it his "writhe" poem.

_Writhe beneath me in crumpled sheets_

_and drown in melodious ecstasy..._

_She is the augury of poetic pleasure._

They fall asleep shortly after, with the brown slip still clutched in his hand. In the middle of the night, when Ryan's snoring wakes her up, she finds his arm thrown carelessly across her waist with the paper nowhere to be seen. She frowns, tries to look for it, but Ryan, still in his sleep, pulls her close to him and pats her waist, mumbling, "Don't worry, I'll write you another one."

She tries to protest by getting up to look, but he mutters into her ear, "Stay."

She looks at him in confusion, and he whispers, "If tonight is all we have, please stay."

So she does. Because Ryan's voice is almost sad enough to break her heart.

And come Wednesday morning, when she wakes up to an empty bed, she calls out for Ryan because she thinks he is trying to tease her by hiding somewhere, in the kitchen or in the bathroom, leaving her alone for just a moment before he pops back in. But today he is gone for a change, _strange_ because he usually stays long enough for her to notice, and as she finds her way through her apartment and into the kitchen to discover that he is _really _gone, she feels a little fleeting pain in her heart. A searing, sharp force, one moment daring to almost rip her to shreds inside and yet, gone the next, as quickly as it came.

Sharpay suddenly becomes very aware of the draft in her room.

She prepares for work, trying to ignore the fact that he hadn't bothered to stay and bid her goodbye. But she simply concludes her inner debate by focusing her attention on her hot shower and later on, her make up and covering up her hickeys.

She grabs her D&G handbag, slips on her favourite worn Charles and Keith heels, and hails a cab to work. Along the way, she stares at office buildings and shops and inactively thinks about him for a couple of moments. She smiles, wondering how she could have lasted so long without his typical, customary Wednesday morning kiss. She relives last week's one in her mind, and it is soft and melancholic, taking her breath away for a moment. She remembers crying, throwing her arms around him and willing him to stay- willing _herself _to stay. He holds her for a moment, kissing her lips once more. But she doesn't stay any longer than the span of his kiss.

The cab driver stops at the corner of Seventy-second street where her office is, just right across Takashimaya. As she reaches for her purse and digs out a twenty to hand the driver, she finds a familiar slip of brown paper there, in Ryan's neat, block lettering. It reads:

_Writhe beneath me in crumpled sheets_

_and drown in melodious ecstasy... _

_You are the augury of poetic pleasure. _

At the corner, she spies his scrawled signature and today's date, and she stuffs it back into her purse with the change from the cab fare. She gets out of the taxi, cool as she's always been known for, and struts into her office building.

Across the street where Ryan is peering out from a corner window of Takashimaya, he spots Sharpay's blonde hair disappear into the doors of her office building. He smiles, knowing that she's gotten his note, but turns back to reality almost immediately as his girlfriend's voice drifts into his ear, "Darling, do you think the red, or the black?"

Eyeing both dresses with leveled interest, he remarks, "Black.", because he knows Sharpay Evans would've looked beautiful in the red.

Gabriella Montez holds the black dress against her chest, beaming and pulling Ryan to her and kissing him quickly on the lips. Ryan just pats her back affectionately, trying to hold back the smile that he knows will ultimately give him away, one day or another.

But for now, the kisses pour freely from her lips down his neck. The salesgirl hides a little knowing smile of her own and moves off to the side to give them the privacy Ryan wishes that people wouldn't automatically assume they need.

Gabriella entwines her fingers with his, gazing up at him with those big brown eyes that seem even bigger up close. "Do you love me?" She giggles, softly, sweetly, and Ryan nods his head, giving her the answer she wants, saying while kissing her forehead, "I love you _so _much."

She leans on him, still holding the black cocktail dress in one hand and says, "Recite me a poem." Ryan thinks for a little while, searching through the archive of verses from memory, but then Gabriella is quick to add, "The one you wrote about me from last August, remember?"

He chews on his bottom lip to keep himself from remembering Sharpay and last night, before repeating the poem that has been worn out so much by these two women that he loves. His "writhe" poem. Written because they both writhe under his touch and neither knows that he's always thinking of the other when he comes over.

He is careful not to let these secrets be seen.

Gabriella closes her eyes and hooks one arm around his waist, steering him in the direction of a bed on display. Together they fall down into the plush comforter that is _very _over-priced, and Gabriella muffles her laughter with kisses pressed to his nape.

_If only_, Ryan thinks, relishing the feel of her lips on his neck (and which guy, in his right mind, wouldn't?), _but if only Gabriella knew..._

_If only Sharpay knew. _Ryan smirks at the thought of the blonde as Gabriella's hand moves further south.

_They are the auguries of his poetic pleasure._

* * *

Written for: coolmarauders (prongs) for the Secret Santa fic-exchange. Hope you loved it! (: 

Task:

**Pairing**: Ryella or Rypay

**Five criteria**: 1) a love triangle 2) lots of drama 3) some dark aspects 4) not a really happy ending 5) lots of description

**No**: Fluff, Troyella, cliched drama or angst.

To coolmarauders:

Merry Christmas! (:

Hope you liked this. Purposely entwined Rypay with Ryella because you wanted either and I just _couldn't _decide. Was actually going along with a Rypay and Ryan with an OC, but heck, Gabriella fit just okay, too. So, on to the task requirements:

-love triangle? check.  
-lots of drama? eh. half check, i guess. dunno if Sharpay's inner thoughts really count much as drama, but well, _I _think so.  
-some dark aspects...? uhm. quarter check. _hey, _GABRIELLA'S DRESS IS DARK! Purposely put that in, did ya know? haha. Well, I thought the "darkest" thing in this whole story was Ryan's not telling either Sharpay or Gabriella. Sharpay seems kind of fine with it, though. I don't know. Usually, I associate "DARKNESS" with like, evil and rape and abuse and all that shit, but hey, Ryan _is _kinda evil in this. An evil playboy. _Yuh_-mmy.  
-not a really happy ending? check check check! the ending wasn't happy or sad. it was kinda just... there. haha.  
-lots of description? hope it was suffice. as you will read below, this has gone through 15 revisions (just for details!).

also...  
-no fluff? eh. i don't suppose.  
-no troyella? THERE'S NO TROY HERE! YAY!!!! (:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:  
-no cliched drama? eh, depends on what you think qualifies as "cliche drama". i would think this might sorta qualify, but heh. sorry.  
-no angst? -According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, angst is a feeling of anxiety, which in turn is painful unease of the mind over anticipated ill, or abnormal apprehension and fear, often accompanied by physiological signs. NOPE- no _angst _here. (:

Well... hope you like it anyway. Even if some parts are _really _cliched.

A/N: Bleugh. You might find this piece remotely similar to a novel series. Can you guess which?

Been meaning to finish this up for days. Gone through fifteen revisions so far. (: but mostly to touch up on the sex. i don't think it was very very very very graphic- do you?

_Disclaimer: Anything you recognise does not belong to me. Any similar phrasing of words or events or places probably belong to Cecily Von Ziegesar. Not me. Also, I don't own high school musical (although if you read one of my stories, you'll find that in an alternate universe, I do own HSM), neither do I own the characters of Ryan, Sharpay, or Gabriella. _

Stuff I have shamelessly stolen from other people:

**From Gossip Girl by Cecily Von Ziegesar:**

-Winston giving Sharpay money when she didn't have enough for cab fare.  
-Takashimaya and Seventy-second street.

**From various other stories on the web:**

**-**"feeling like they had taken a hundred foot plunge on a roller coaster ride" -taken from The Waiting Room, by BKGal24  
-Sharpay becoming very well aware of the draft in her room. -taken from Sunday Masquarade by Vexia, which was what birthed much of the inspiration required for this story.  
-"behind closed doors" -an unintentional reference to a very well written Rypay by Till That Time, called Behind Closed Doors. I didn't notice it until my friend pointed it out while she was reading this behind my shoulder (darn, you!).

**From movies:**

-"stay."/"if tonight is all we have, please stay." -Can't remember, probably some chick flick, though.

**From High School Musical:**

-Gabriella's "red or black" dress. I really did think Sharpay would look nicer in the red, though. (I think that's all)

The rest is mine, mine, _mine_!

If you notice, sometimes I use previous lines from my other stories, too, just to make reference to them.

-Sharpay's blonde hair disappearing into her office building, a very obvious reference to Vietati Amanti.  
-Gabriella hooking an arm over Ryan's waist, steering him in a certain direction, a subtle reference to Precettore.  
-Ryan liking Gabriella ever since Twinkle Towne, a reference to Sweet and Sour.  
-Ryan remaining "polite as ever", a subtle reference to the gentlemanly Ryan in Precettore  
-Sort of an unofficial sequel to Breathing, and a couple of references from it- Ryan's lanky and warm hands, linking of their hands in bed, Ryan writing songs in High School (he sang her a song in Breathing), Sharpay wishing that "it would all be real, someday", specific references to their "_breathing_".  
-"like a dream" reference in a couple of stories, Vietati Amanti, Sunday Morning, Ruvido.

I have just realised I have completed a story without Troy Bolton! If you know me, I dislike the character very much. YAY ME!

PS: For those of y'all wondering what's up with Precettore, well, uh, chapter 8 is coming along. Maybe 50 done. GIVE ME SOME SUGGESTIONS! (I almost had a nervous breakdown with this sick chapter). (:

PPS: REVIEW! TELL ME WHICH LINE YOU LIKED BEST! (:

much love and merry christmas,  
dwilivia.


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